


illuminated

by pheenick



Series: a light dusting of snow [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 14th Century, 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Illuminated manuscripts, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Quite extraordinary amounts of alchohol, but there are subtle hints of, ish, specifically the dirtier ones but nothing explicitly described
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21751555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheenick/pseuds/pheenick
Summary: “And I thoughtreadingwas dull,” Crowley says when his patience finally runs thin. “Heaven finally run out of tasks to give you? Can’t imagine they’d tell their only active agent to hole up in some monastery in the middle of nowhere. Thought you’d be dancing with the rest of the carolers.”“I don’t dance,” Aziraphale says dryly, not looking up. “And I’d rather avoid the company.”Or, Aziraphale has Opinions about some of the monks' work in their manuscripts.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: a light dusting of snow [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564759
Kudos: 25





	illuminated

**Author's Note:**

> Written for _Day 10: Gold & Silver_ from the [Advent Calendar 2019](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294) by [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight/pseuds/drawlight) !

The moonlight burns low, drip-feeding through the stone in shapes and artful patterns that move slowly across the parchment. It catches against fresh lines of gold, reflecting onto features that draw closer, eyes squinting and measuring the curves. The scribe hardly breathes. Quiet as a tomb, working even as the monastery below them grows increasingly more intoxicated.

Crowley watches for a long moment. Hovering in the shadows that melt around him like an old friend coming to roost. He’s been there for what seems like ages now. Patiently waiting for Aziraphale to notice or to stop pretending that he’s not noticed already.

( _Hard not to notice another occult being directly behind you. Especially Aziraphale, who still jumps at every hint of a sprinkling bells sounding to his right_.)

“And I thought _reading_ was dull,” Crowley says when his patience finally runs thin. “Heaven finally run out of tasks to give you? Can’t imagine they’d tell their only active agent to hole up in some monastery in the middle of nowhere. Thought you’d be dancing with the rest of the carolers.”

“I don’t dance,” Aziraphale says dryly, not looking up. “And I’d rather avoid the company.”

Crowley’s robes drag on the floor as he comes closer and Aziraphale frowns at the enlarged sound of it in his small room. “Someone’s a bit grumpy.”

“It’s hardly unfounded.” At Crowley’s arched brow Aziraphel’s lips curl. It scrunches up the deep lines by his nose and Crowley has to stamp down a smile. Aziraphale says, “The monks have taken to filling in the margins with rather ghastly imagery whenever I turn away. There is far better material for them to work with and still the posteriors interject themselves on every ragged edge.”

“How awful.” Crowley shakes his head, hopefully sounding insulted enough on Aziraphale’s behalf. He examines the stack neatly placed to the side. A nice little page with a prayer inked precisely within the light lines of silver ruling across the pages. It’s all very even and inhumanly perfect, not even a faint trace of a wavering hand. He throws a look over the pages that Aziraphale ignores by standing up and stretching. 

There’s a strange assortment of snails and rabbits. The expected faire of _offensive_ imagery, which, in all honesty, Crowley finds to be fairly well rendered. The caricatures of other members of the abbey make Crowley smile. He can almost _feel_ the petty frustration drifting off the page with the faint presence of lead. The dedication to immortalize their peers in embarrassing poses or living out their dream of coming like that angry chef with the large knife.

The ones further back in the stack are older. More finished with the full array of blues, greens and reds making it all seem rather festive. He flips through them quickly, taking in the pictures decorating the majuscules and taking up rather significant portions of the pages with ruffled wings and curls softly defined in gold and silver. 

Actually—

Aziraphale coughs and Crowley looks up, cheeks starting to twinge from the _grin_ taking up his face.

“ _You_!” Crowley exclaims utterly delighted. He slams the pages back onto the table and Aziraphale squawks at the rattling ink wells. “Taken up a career in modelling, have you? Isn’t that quite vain. And to hide up here rather than face them yourself, _tsk tsk_.”

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale scolds, skin turning a remarkable shade of scarlet. 

“No wonder you’re all prickly. Visiting all these monks, giving them a little peek behind the curtain into the _divine_ and they’d rather spend their time drawing funny faces and walking fish.”

“ _Why_!” The angel puffs and Crowley can almost see those feathers of his fluffing up like a particularly chagrined pigeon. “Is this all your work then?”

“It’s awfully flattering,” Crowley says pleasantly, laying a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “ _But_ , I think this is just what humans do when they're bored out of their mind and forced to do something so torturously tedious.”

Blue eyes narrow. Sharper in the night, but quickly giving away to the full bottles of wine Crowley is suddenly holding in each hand. The tongue licking across those lips disappears as soon as Aziraphale remembers his role in all of this.

“Before you ask, I didn't steal it.” Crowley grins. “Well. Not from anyone who would miss it. Compliments from your friends downstairs.”

The protest lasts as long as it takes for it to sink in _who_ exactly Crowley means. The smile comes easier than it should have. Flooding the room with warmth and making Crowley preen.

Crowley raises a finger to snap up some glasses, but Aziraphale just snatches a bottle for himself and pops it open with ease. He holds it up, reading the label curiously. “I suppose we're helping them in a fashion. Drinking so they don't have to. It can't possibly be healthy to drink as much as they probably have.”

“They've already got a huge head start.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale says, raising his bottle. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

Crowley meets him with a clink. “That we do.”

And, if after the night's festivities, a few pages containing the most perfect replicas of an angel's plumage mysteriously go missing, no one has the sober mind to comprehend it until long after both angel and demon have departed from the monastery.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](https://pheenick.tumblr.com/) where I sometimes do things.


End file.
